Out of the Darkness
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2007. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

Alistar wept, his tears tracing the curve of his sunken cheek. The sky had been a murky gray for ages, the sun and moon and stars, his onetime companions, having long ago taken their leave. His tears were tears of joy, for the light had returned to him, filling Alistar with hope for the first time in his life.

He had been bound to the tree facing this spot for months, possibly years, possibly his entire life. Alistar could not recall. The forest was all he knew, all he could remember. It was his world.

There were times Alistar felt himself on the verge of starvation, ready to give in to the hunger that gripped his being. Each time a mysterious man would appear out of the shadows, giving him something to eat and something to drink. Alistar had begged for mercy, hoping the man would release him from his entanglement or let him die, but the stranger would simply smile, wipe away Alistar’s tears, and slink back into the shadows. Despite this, Alistar felt no ill will towards the man.

And so it was, on the day that the day the sun peaked once more through the treetops, that the stranger unbound Alistar’s hands, wrapped a towel around his thin frame, and led him to the cottage beside the rippling stream. “You have endured,” spoke the stranger. “Now rest.”

It was on this day that Alistar began his journey to the throne, as the Great Book had said.

To Be The Hero Once More
by  Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2007. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

I should’ve listened to my wife.

She had told me, begged me really, to sit this one out, to stay at home with her and the baby ,to not try to be the hero. She knew this about me. I always have to be the hero.

She told me I’m not a kid any more, that I have responsibilities now. “What if you got hurt”, she asked. We both knew we couldn’t afford for me to miss any time at work, but I assured her that I’d be fine, that there’s no way “Sweet Feet” was coming home injured. She rolled her eyes.

Sure they were all at least twelve years younger than I, and most of them faster and stronger. And sure, at the last minute they had decided we were going to play tackle rather than touch. I was going to be Quarterback; all of the glory without having to do much running or even get hit.

I’m not sure what came over me. Watched too many Steeler games? All those girls in the stands, cheering us on? It’s nice to know you still got it, right?

It was fourth down, we were at the goal-line, and the game was on the line. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have dove, but it felt right at the time.

And so, I find myself staring at the beautiful Fall Pennsylvania sky, with a headache and possibly a few less teeth. Was it worth it? Depends. Did I get in?

Tastes Like Brains
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2008. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

“What do you think brains taste like?” said Matthew, glancing over his shoulder. “I’d imagine they’re a bit salty.”

“Ugh,” said Shannon, wondering as she stumbled, who had replaced her feet with cinder blocks. “Don’t wanna know.”

“You’d get used to it, eventually,” continued Matthew. “Eat enough of them and they probably start to taste like chicken.”

Shannon sat with a thud beneath the leafless White Ash overlooking an abandoned farmhouse. “I need a rest,” she said, ignoring him.

“Get up,” said Matthew, immediately regretting his tone.

“Just a few moments,” said Shannon, resting her forehead on the knees of her dirt stained jeans. They had been on the run for days, with little sleep, food, or water, unable to elude their slow moving tormentors. It was maddening.

Matthew looked down the hill toward the farmhouse. If only he had picked a restaurant in the city, rather than that rustic diner in the middle of nowhere, and if only he hadn’t dropped his car keys when the whole mess started, they would be home by now, safe and warm.

Soon, Matthew saw their approach. Hundreds, maybe thousands, stumbling up the gray, decaying grass, their dead, mournful eyes fixed in his direction. “Promise me something,” he said, taking hold of Shannon’s petite, strong hand, lifting her to her feet.

“What?”

“Promise me if they get you first, you’ll be the one to eat my brain, not them.”

“Tastes like chicken, right?” said Shannon, forcing a smile as they ran once more.

A Matter of Taste
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2009. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

“Drink,” said Graymatter, pointing at the goblet.

“I will do nothing of the sort,” spat the man in the sombrero. “I drank first at ourlast encounter.”

“Your memory is faulty,” replied Graymatter. “Much like your spine.”

“Have you met the last man who questioned my valor?” said the man in the sombrero. “He’s six feet under the ground. Perhaps you would like to join him?”

“Save the braggadocio and drink, coward,” said Graymatter, leaning back in his chair, just out of reach.

The man in the sombrero looked at the glass and then at his rival. With a cackle, he folded his arms and grinned. He would not be fooled so easily.

Graymatter blinked. Had he underestimated his opponent? Had the large man somehow found composure?

The enemies sat silent, each waiting for the other to flinch. The taunts of Graymatter gradually wormed their way under the skin of the man in the sombrero. Unable to ignore their itch, he clutched the glass and consumed its contents.

“Well?” asked Graymatter, smirking at the shrewdness of his maneuver.

“Red… banana?” replied the man in the sombrero, coughing as his body rejected the wretched drink.

Graymatter gasped. “Impossible,” he said. “That flavor exists in legend alone.”

The door swung open. A young man wearing a golf shirt emblazoned with the Kool Aid logo emerged. “Next,” he said, placing a new glass on the table. “And this time with a little less drama, please. We have twenty more flavors to test today.”

The Traveler and The Game
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2010. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

An old man stopped me on my way to the mountaintop. He had a beard as black as coal stretching to the tops of his feet and a long flowing robe so filthy that tiny green buds sprouted upon its surface. A rock, a stick, and a gun lay before him. “Stay for a game,” he said to me. “If you win I’ll let you pass.”
“And if I refuse?”

The man said nothing, instead turning his eyes toward the gun. I got the message.

“Well, what’s the game?” I said.

“Using any one of these items, rid me of that wicked creature,” he replied, pointing a crooked finger at the raven circling overhead. “In one shot.”

I considered the objects at hand.

The rock. Too light and insignificant, it would do nothing but agitate the bird.

More substantial, but terribly inaccurate, the stick was not worth the risk.

The gun was my only true option. Lifting the weapon, I trained my sights on the winged creature. Moving the barrel just to the left of my target, boom click boom, I emptied both chambers. The creature departed.

“Thank you,” said the old man, fading like mist in the breeze, the shot still ringing in my ears. The rock, the stick, and the gun followed.

The land compelling me to rest, I sat in the very spot the man had been. And there I remain, seated, watching the raven fly above, waiting for an unfortunate soul willing to play my game.